Writers: The Scourge of Hollywood!

If I told you his name I’d probably wake up to find a horse’s head in my bed. But I think it’s safe to tell you he’s a major Studio Exec in his fifties with a craggy, deeply tanned face and poofy, oddly scissored hair, who hops around with aimless, vaguely malevolent agitation, like an organ grinder’s monkey. Whether or not you recognize his mug, you recognize his movies.


Studio Exec lay down on the treatment table today, huffing and fidgeting. I’ve been helping him with “potency issues,” and I figured, by his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, we were getting results.

Man, I feel great!” he said, kicking off his mahogany New & Lingwood loafers and sending his gaze my way.

“Excellent,” I said, unwrapping some needles. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Anybody wants to screw with me, watch out!” he said. “I just came from a meeting with our writers. Those dummies have no idea who they’re dealing with. Ha!” It sounded like Studio Exec’s potency issues were being resolved.

“Ya know, Silverman’s got the right idea,” he continued. “Silverman’s brilliant, everybody knows that. Demanding that the writers deliver on time is a good move. But we’re going one step further. We’re cutting the damn writers out of production after the first step. Brilliant, huh?”

“I didn’t even know Sarah Silverman uses writers,” I said. “I thought she just channels her act.”

Studio Exec gave me a pained look--and not because my needles hurt (I use a very gentle technique.) “Sarah Silverman?” he said. “I’m talking about Greg Silverman!”

I must have given him a blank look because he added: “Greg Silverman! VP at Warner!” As if that meant anything to me. I continued with my treatment and he continued with his rant. As soon as the needles had all found their places he’d calm down. I’d see to it.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, clasping his hands over his flat-as-a-dish belly and gazing at the ceiling. “Silverman is demanding the writers turn in their rewrites on time, or else! That’s just the way it’s going to be, like it or not. New world order. That‘s OK, but we’re going one step further! After first-draft we don’t need the writer anymore. We’re outsourcing to India, see? Schools like Digital Academy and FTII are setting loose a thousand hungry grads every half hour, and boy can those kids crank it out! They write just as good as our own spoiled, pansy-ass writers, only faster. Ask any one of those Indian kids and they’ll recite a dozen pages of “Beverly Hills Cop,” One through Five! And number four ain’t even in the can yet! Ha!”

“So you’re feeling more robust,” I said. “Is it fair to say these acupuncture treatments are helping?”

Studio Exec wasn’t done. “Here’s the deal: the local writer sends us the first draft and then we send him back to his lunch shift at The Ivy. Then we go one-on-one with India. Strictly on the down-low, right? We crank it out. Ya know, my wife has been after me to adopt a set of twins from Somali but now I’m thinking India is the way to go. A set of smart, little twins from India! You see where I’m goin’ with this? What do you think I should name 'em?

But before I could suggest “Eternally” and “Grateful,” he was cranking out a snore and slobbering on my sheet.

Über-Agent Pays in Cupcakes

Commando is a well-known, über-agent with a roster of clients that stretches from here to Betty Ford.

“Everything about me is über, Chuck,” she once bragged, kissing her own bicep.

This seemed an odd remark for a woman with a $20 flat-top from Supercuts, but I soon learned Commando speaks the language of extremes. And so, she’s just as likely to proclaim a client’s snobby, little art house flick, “The Most Ground-Breaking Film of the Past Fifty Years,” as she is likely to proclaim her coke-head tattoo guy, “The Greatest Portrait Artist Since Rembrandt.”

I was emergency-called to Commando’s Century City office today and was greeted by her latest assistant, a terrorized, young woman with frizzy, brown hair and a Band Aid stuck on her forehead. There was no point learning her name, I could see that. As any Industry assistant can tell you, when your boss throws a fit, your job is secure; when your boss throws a Brancusi, your days are numbered.

Commando roared from her inner office, “Get in here, Charles! Stick some pins in me quick, before my damn head explodes!”

Commando had kicked off her boots and lay on her sofa, looking up at me. “Ya know, Chuck, the pressure of this adoption is making me insane. It’s very stressful!”

“I didn’t know you’re adopting,” I said.

“Oh you bet I am, Chuck. And you’re the one who inspired me. There you are, a single parent -- I wouldn’t call your friend Myron a fully committed partner -- who manages to juggle career and fatherhood successfully. And what a great kid you’ve got. What the hell’s her name, anyway?”

Commando was referring to my daughter Meryl, who entered my life during an Oscars party five years ago. My caterer had brought along a woman skilled in the production of unbearably greasy baba-ganoush, which was bad enough, but then the woman ended up giving birth under my chocolate fountain just as Annette Bening was cheated out of Best Actress by Hilary Swank.

The woman begged me to keep the baby till Thursday while she arranged for friends to come get it, as her husband didn’t want any more kids. That was five years ago. My caterer later confessed the woman had rejoined her family in some remote Indian village, which makes me wonder: why baba-ganoush? Isn’t that Greek? In any case, while I’ve accepted the role of father, I know little Meryl’s mother could show up at any moment looking for her kid and wondering why I named her after “The Most Versatile Actress of the Past Fifty Years.” So I try not to get too attached to the little cupcake muncher in the flowered pinafore.

As I swabbed Commando with alcohol she unleashed a deep sigh. “Is it fun being a parent?” she said.

“That depends on whether you enjoy waking up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep because of all the crying. Your own crying.”

“Well, it would be worth it to me,” she said, lacing her fingers together and resting them on her stomach. “It’s for my job. It’s all about the nanny network. You could stick a few more needles in my scalp and I wouldn’t complain.”

“I see,” I said.

The nanny network, in case you didn’t already know, is more powerful than any other professional network in L.A. The idea is this: you enroll your child in the best school and on the best teams and then throw parties for your kid at every opportunity. The really important families will send their nannies along with the kids. During the fun-making, your nanny sits in the kitchen with the other nannies, where they all pump each other for gossip on behalf of their employers. More than a few Hollywood deals have been incubated in the nanny network.

“Parenthood is more trouble than you think,” I said. “I’m here to warn you.”

Commando rolled her head to one side and gazed out the window, up at the sky. Then she turned to me. “So, what if I just borrow your kid once in a while? She could pretend to be my daughter and I’d give parties for her at my place. I’d pay you for the favor. There’s some potential clients whose kids are taking acting classes on the West Side. I’ll enroll her in those classes and then give some parties and invite everybody. She could pull it off, right? You keep telling me what a great actor she is. And who knows, maybe I could sign her with the agency, if she’s any good.”

There was no point pretending. “Yes,” I said “she is a great actress. You should see her Blanche DuBois, her Lady MacBeth, her Joan of Arc. Playing the part of your daughter would be a cinch.”

“You know,” said Commando wrinkling her freckled nose, “my headache is all of a sudden gone! You’re a genius for thinking of this. Bring your kid to my place next Saturday and I’ll enroll her in acting school. I’ve already written you a check for the favor.”

“She’d enjoy that,” I said, pulling out the pins. “I’ll put the money toward her Yale Drama School fund.” Commando handed me a check. It was for twenty five dollars. Okay then … toward cupcakes.

File Under: Forked Tongue Cuts Both Ways

I haven't heard from Myron for two weeks and I'm starting to get worried.  His new "job" requires that he transport objets d'art over the border into the U.S. whereupon they are sold to anonymous buyers.  The funds are then used to finance production of feature films...

In the meantime, my practice is busy as ever.  But I must remember to speak with a lisp whenever the Middle Eastern Prince comes for his therapy!  I'll write a reminder on the back of my hand every Tuesday morning and peek at it during his session..........

..........SPEAK WITH LISP!!!

Middle Eastern Prince came for his first session today. He was distraught because of his pronounced lisp.  Apparently lisping is considered non-dominant behavior in his culture. Even though he is Harvard-educated, he still subscribes to the quaint belief that a man must act like that square-jawed lumberjack in the red flannel shirt and massive biceps, on the BOUNTY paper towel wrapping.  Or that strapping ironworker on the MANHANDLER soup can, or my plumber Barbaroso, all of whom exhibit gay tendencies, if you ask me.

Anyway, as every healthcare provider knows, it's imperative to establish rapport with the patient immediately. This means if your patient leans to the left, you lean to the left; if he uncrosses his legs, scratches his head and fiddles with his Smart Phone, you do the same.  I do a pretty fair job of imitating my patients in their behaviors, although I draw the line at climbing out the window and threatening to jump.  They're on their own there!

Well, the Middle Eastern Prince came to my office today and introduced himself.  "I have a thlight thpeech impediment," he said. "Ith there thomething you can do to help me with thith problem?"

"Yethhir, Your Highneth," I said, establishing rapport through imitation. "There ith nothing to be contherned about. Pleathe thit down."

"My goodneth," he said. "Nobody told me you have a thpeech impediment too!"

"I thertainly do," I said. Well, it was going smoothly until my assistant Delphinia called me on the intercom.

"Charles?" came her voice.

"Yeth?" I said. "What ith it?"

Delphinia, who is a drama major at Santa Monica College and who has improvisation training, automatically started talking with a lisp. "I was thinking of having thushi for a thnack. Or thome thoup. It'th a tough choith. Would you like me to pick you up a thandwich?  A thardine thandwich, perhapth?"

The Middle Eastern Prince grew irate and accused Delphinia of mocking him but I assured him she was imitating me and that I fully understood his pain. He seemed to buy that story, which was a relief, since he could probably have her beheaded!
Anyway, he felt much better after his therapy and bounded out of the office and didn't even use the elevator. He took the stairth!

File Under: Conservative Values Applied Liberally

Mrs. X is the wife of a nationally syndicated Conservative TV host (you can’t avoid him!).  She came to my office this morning with a serious problem: she caught her husband cheating. She had read his text messages and was terribly upset.

Mrs. X needed to talk before her acupuncture treatment.  She sat on my sofa, crossed her lovely, toned legs and wiped away a tear.  She said, “I was so surprised when I found that romantic message on my husband's phone, I nearly fainted!”

"What I’m hearing,” I said, “is that in the process of snooping around on your husband's cell phone, you were shocked to find exactly what you expected.”

Mrs. X said, “This is unforgivable behavior from a man who lectures to the entire nation about Family Values!”

"What I’m hearing," I said, "is that you can’t tolerate him being a complicated and imperfect human being."

Mrs. X stared at her shoes and frowned.  They were gold buckled Gucci pumps from three seasons ago and frankly, I would have frowned too.  She said, “And worst of all, he’s been carrying on with our nanny.  How unimaginative!”

"What I’m hearing," I said, burping up a delicious risotto con fungi porcini from Il Cielo, “is that you had hoped your husband would show more imagination than you do.  By the way, are you still carrying on with your pool boy?”

“What?” she said, hearing me for the first time. “What did you say, Charles?”

“I said, how is it going with you and the pool boy?”

“Oh Jesus!” she said.  “Thanks for reminding me! I’m supposed to meet him at the house at one o’clock.  I’m giving him a brand new BMW and I need to get there early to surprise him. Gotta run! Sorry!”  She stood up and bolted out the door, tossing a wad of cash my way.

“Take your time!“ I called to her, hoping Mrs. X wouldn’t get to the house too terribly early. I'd hate for her to catch the pool boy with the nanny.

File Under: Acting Odd in L.A.

Yesterday, during the Emmys, I was sitting with a group of Industry types at a crowded West Hollywood eatery.  My host was a sit-com actress who may never get a statuette unless her show gets better scripts and some serious studio push.  Despite the lack of Emmy glow among my fellow diners--which included several actors and writers, a TV director, celebrity shrink Dr. Carla DelVecchio and two talent reps from rival agencies who are secretly dating--and despite our senses being dulled from too much champagne (we had finished off six bottles of Cristal and hadn't even ordered our food yet), we pricked up our ears when a voice drifted over from across the room.

“The Fox party?” came a young man’s voice. “Cool! Pass around your card.  And there’s lots of single chicks? Cool. Work your charm, dude, work it!”  A man across the room was talking to a friend on his cell phone, a friend who was calling from an Emmy after-party, downtown.

“I'll have you know,” I announced to my fellow diners, “I should be given an Emmy for the performance I gave on the phone this past Friday. If there were a category for best telephone performance, I’d be a shoo-in.”

“What ever do you mean?” asked the sit-com actress, who was wearing a Chicago Bulls baseball cap, hoping not to be noticed.

“Yes, tell us,” said one of the agents, sipping champagne from her boyfriend’s glass while her other hand was busy under the table.

“Well,” I said, “I was supposed to attend a parent-teacher conference with my daughter’s teacher on Friday morning but then I got a call from an oil exec to come give his wife acupuncture at the Beverly Wilshire. She was suffering with a migraine and none of her meds was doing the trick.  So I called my daughter’s teacher and told her I had tonsillitis. I sounded so pathetic and feverish I actually started feeling sorry for myself.  You should have heard me cough and hack.  And she fell for it!”

Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Sir, excuse me.”  The young man from across the room was standing over me, glaring through horn rims.  “Sir, I could not help but overhear your comments.  I’d just like you to know that I am a teacher and that your behavior is disgraceful and irresponsible.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Teachers work unbelievably hard for very little money just so the offspring of lazy bums like you can get a jumpstart on life. You should be ashamed of yourself.”  He was trembling with anger and I could see the muscle in his cheek moving back and forth.

“Well, I, uh…gosh, now I feel kind of bad,” I said, hoping he wasn't armed.

The man squinted at me for a long moment, then flashed a broad smile. “Not really,” he said. “I’m an actor. Fooled you, didn’t I!”

“Huh?” I said. “But why…huh?”

He looked across the table at the two canoodling agents. The under-table hanky-panky suddenly ceased as the young man handed the woman his business card.  “I recognize you,” he said to her.  “You’ve got some big clients and I’m gonna be one of ’em one day!  My name's Herbie and I'm a Tisch grad--NYU--and I've done two seasons of Shakespeare in the Park!  So here's your chance to snap me up!"  He winked at her and made a ktch-ktch sound from the side of his mouth. We all stared.

“Well, is anybody going to ask me to sit down?” he said, waving his arms like a marionette.

“Not me,” said Dr. DelVecchio. The young man looked around to see if anyone else would.  Nobody did.

I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach, a mixture of hunger and guilt.  "Now I feel bad for missing the conference with that teacher.  Bummer."

“Don’t worry,” said Dr. DelVecchio.  “You have a nanny, don't you? What do you think nannies are for?”

The agent glared at the young man.  "I wouldn't give you a job if it was the last thing I did, not after that stunt you just pulled." 

"Alright then," said the young man, and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket.  "May I take your order?"